


time after time (you will forgive me)

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Past Lives, Post-Canon, becoming more functional
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros takes in the newly re-embodied Fingon, and some old ghosts refused to be laid to rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time after time (you will forgive me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somebraveapollo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebraveapollo/gifts).



“Findekáno? Don’t move so quickly, you’ll feel -- faint,” Maedhros said with a sigh as Fingon’s head lolled back, his eyes closed. Experimentally, Maedhros tried to lift him, but frowned. Even now, he favored his left hand, letting the right just hang down uselessly. Just because it was there did not make it any easier to accept. He supposed such healing was the province of Nienna, but he had never taken much stock in it. 

Fingon woke again with a deep breath. His eyes, with the exact shade of blue that Maedhros had half-forgotten about, it had been so long as he had seen them, sharpened on him. “Maitimo? Is that you?” 

Maedhros grinned, albeit painfully. Fingon’s whole body was laid on his legs, they were both hopelessly tangled together. At other times, perhaps, such a position would have been a delight, but now it seemed only awkward. “I am as I ever was. Do you remember anything?”

Fingon shook his head and pushed the hair from his face. “It is only a grey blur. I remember -- the battle and dying, but even those memories are numb.” 

Maedhros clasped the back of Fingon’s neck for a moment. They sat in silence for a moment, before Maedhros rose. He helped Fingon up as well, and together they made their way back down the garden path, to where the rest of their family was waiting. 

*****

Maedhros scanned the hillside in a quick, methodical manner, taking note of the way the land gently undulated, like the folds of a tablecloth. He knew there was no danger lurking in the flock of placid sheep that grazed nearby, nor in the rustling of trees in the woods nearby. But the habit of a lifetime was a hard thing to break, even if that particular lifetime had run its course. 

Far above him, there was the call of some bird of prey, and he glanced up and measured the distance between them. After a moment, when it seemed that there was nothing more to do, Maedhros took a deep breath, then two. Then, in a sudden rush, he began to run, down the hillside, his boots slipping against the dewy grass. 

He was going home. 

The House of Maedhros sat in a small green valley, far from any port or town. It was neither a palace nor a keep, but instead it was a house, meant to hold only a handful of people in it. The house was made of grey stone, native to the land, and as the centuries passed since Maedhros had built it, moss grew on the stones. He was not like some, who encouraged designs to grow in the moss, but it was true that the color was a restful one to the eye. 

The house itself was not far from the ruins of Formenos. 

Here, Maedhros thought, the progression of the seasons was much like Beleriand, and in the winter, the grass would sometimes take a faint dusting of snow. And here too, Maedhros was determined to take his cousin, if he could, and ease him back to the land of the living.

Anairë had objected, and even came to see him in the weeks before Fingon's release from the Halls. She had admired the loftiness of the great hall, the intimacy of the family quarters, even the extensive gardens -- the small lake -- before she turned to Maedhros, who was still explaining how he desired to make a trout stream -- and said, "Maitimo, I appreciate what you've done here, but don't you think Findekáno should be with me?"

Maedhros opened his mouth to reply but Anairë sighed explosively and pushed the hair from her face, a gesture so like Fingon's that he was silenced. She said, "Findekáno is my child -- I should be the one guide him through this. Elenwë and I didn't do a half-bad job with Turukáno, did we?" 

Then she fixed him a challenging look. "I will not lose him again, Maitimo."

"I would not wish it," Maedhros said. "And if you still resided in Tirion, perhaps it would have been best for Findekáno to be there. But you live mostly in Aqualondë..."

"Yes, indeed I do. There are more Elves now who were born after the Darkening than those before. And even in Aqualondë, the past has finally resolved itself into history. I do not think Findekáno would be unwelcome there. Not with his aunt, the Queen, in residence."

"Nor the Queen's right hand as his mother. Don't think I forget," Maedhros said, placing a kiss on Anairë's cheek.

"Impertinent boy!" She said, laughing. He grinned back at her. She was the only one -- save his mother -- who could call him boy still. 

"Fine,” Anairë said with a sigh. “Bring him here. At least it is -- quiet here. But remember, I shall come too, and all of my brood, and ruin all of the solitude you’ve built. You have only yourself to blame for that -- and I will not have you making my son unhappy, Maitimo!"

"I would not dream of it," Maedhros said with a bow. He hoped that he did right. 

*****

Fingon could light up a room just by entering it. He could lift hearts, change them, break and mend them just as easily. He was extraordinary. It had not been long since Maedhros had brought Fingon back, back to a house full of people, laughter and hope. And Fingon was bolstered by their presence. He and Anairë would often disappear for the whole morning, coming back in the afternoon and exchange whole conversations between them with a look. 

“Is it all right,” Maedhros asked him, more than once. “Would you rather be --” _In Tirion, which was not the same, or in Aqualondë (whatever your mother says) where they still remember the gleam of your sword. (And mine.)_ “... Somewhere else?” 

Fingon read Maedhros’ thoughts as easily as if he had said them. He clasped Maedhros’ knotted hands together. “Maitimo,” he said, “I have never shared a house with you, just you, in any of my lives. Why would I waste this chance?” 

He gave Maedhros a conspiratorial grin. “In truth, I cannot believe we are allowed this happiness. I would not question it lest it prove a delusion.” 

Aredhel had come only for a day, and then went back to the deep woods where she wandered freely, and wherever else she wished. Turgon too had come, with his wife and their daughter. The little family had gathered around Fingon and Fingon had wept, for the first time, in seeing them. 

“It is so good to see you, my dearest sister!” he cried, kissing Elenwë’s forehead. Elenwë blushed and could not quite speak. It was then Aredhel stomped on Fingon’s foot. 

“Am I less dear of a sister, Findekáno?” she said sweetly, springing away from him and Fingon gave her a few half-hearted swipes, and laughed. 

“You wretch! You are a horror of a sister.” 

“And you, a horror of a brother!” 

Turgon tried to speak, but his voice was drowned out in the tumult. He looked surprised but not unpleased -- Maedhros watched him and knew how different it was to be among siblings rather than subjects. Idril aided and abetted Aredhel’s mischief, and in the end, the two women left together. 

Indeed, they all went, eventually. It was an unexpected wretch to see them all go. But go they did, one by one or in groups -- Anairë back to Aqualondë, Idril back to Tol Eressëa and the rest back to Tirion. 

Maedhros’ brothers, all released save for Curufin only, had come and gone, but Nerdanel had lingered by Anairë’s side. She often gave Maedhros a peculiar, questioning look, and in the end, she gravely wished him luck. 

And then there was just the two of them. After Maedhros had exhausted all the features of the house, showing Fingon even the secret passage between their two rooms (more for old time’s sake than any fear of impropriety, of which mattered little now), before Fingon nodded and took the passage to his room, to sleep. 

The next day, he came down, full of questions and demands. The work of maintaining the house and the land interested him immensely and he threw himself at it all. Often, they would not see each for the whole day, until they would meet again for the evening meal. After that, they would sit beside the fire and talk of their day.

Once, Maedhros took out a ball of golden thread from his pocket and presented it to Fingon. Fingon took it from him and examined it, as he would an ancient artifact. 

Then he shook his head and handed it back to Maedhros. “Not yet.” 

They did not speak of the past at those times, or at any other. 

*****

Days slipped into weeks, then months. Finally, a year had passed since Fingon’s release from the Halls. Maedhros opened the door to Fingon’s room, a question about that night’s dinner on his lips, when he saw that the room was empty and the windows open, the wind ruffling the curtains. He closed the windows and would have turned, to look elsewhere, except for the presence of a note, pinned into the top of the desk by the window. 

The note was in Fingon’s hand. It promised that he would be back, but not yet. Maedhros crumpled it in his hand and fed it to the smoky remains of the fire. 

To love something was to set it free, didn’t the old saying go? But no, that was not what he had been taught. To love something was to hold it, trap it, keep it until you could not. Maedhros had unlearned many things he had been taught, but he could never unlearn _that_. 

He raced around the house, getting things ready. Blankets, food, some weapons. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a harp from Maglor’s room, and strapped it on his back. 

 

*****

He found Fingon sitting on the banks of a small river, watching the water. He did not look up as Maedhros approached him, but he did when Maedhros dropped the harp into his lap and sat down beside him.

“This is a terrible rescue operation, Maitimo,” Fingon said, at last. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have much experience in the matter.” 

“Hm.” Fingon began to cox a tune from the harp. It came, little wandering song that had no words. “Aren’t you going to ask me why it took me so long to be released from Mandos?” 

Maedhros sighed. “Findekáno, you know you need not tell me anything…” 

“Do you think I am ashamed of it?” 

Maedhros shook his head. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“There was a time when you would not have lied to me,” Fingon said, and the music deepened and then stopped. He set down the harp and looked at Maedhros for the first time. 

“I do not lie,” Maedhros said. “And you owe me nothing.” 

“I died,” Fingon said, as if he had not heard, “And at first I could not believe it. I had had close calls before, of course, but every time my luck held, until suddenly it did not. But dying was not the worst thing to happen. No. The worst was to see how utterly my people were destroyed -- how the land was ripped apart. All that was my fault. I did that. 

But of course that wasn't all -- do not forget I reddened my hand in Aqualondë.” Fingon looked up at Maedhros -- “because I could not continence the thought of you being in danger. But I killed without cause.”

“Finno…” 

“And then the Helcaraxë too! I urged my father to push on, because I dreamed of new lands and people to rule. That wish was paid with terror and blood -- though not by me. To know that my brother would wait so long to see Elenwë again … I stayed in Mandos because I was ashamed of myself, Maitimo. I could hardly do anything else.” 

“Findekáno, listen to me. All these self-accusations, no matter how just, will not help you now. Is it not enough that you live now -- and know that most of those who died live again?” 

“How can I do that when I remember Húrin and Huor?” 

Maedhros rubbed his temples together. “Fine. A sad, stoical existence for you, then. Always looking backward, a thousand regrets, nothing new here. A bog-standard existence for an Elf, if I’d ever heard of one, though I had hopes that you would be different.” 

Fingon stared at him. “Are you being serious?” 

Maedhros stared back at him. “Absolutely. You are here, alive and sulking on the banks of this river, because Mandos would not let you sit, dead and sulking in his halls. You weep, because you were the worst king the Noldor ever had --” 

“Better than you, at least,” Fingon said, bristling. 

“Quite a low standard, don’t you think?” Maedhros said, and to his relief, Fingon laughed. 

Fingon lay down on the grass and looked up at the sky. After a moment’s hesitation, Maedhros copied him, stretching out his legs, that had begun to ache. 

Softly, Fingon said, “How did you do it? When I first came back, I could hardly look at myself without bursting into tears. I felt as if I was made of glass --” 

“You hid it well,” Maedhros said. 

“I hid it by hiding myself. Or did you think I had developed a sudden and intense interest in farming?” 

“I knew where you were. I thought that when you were ready, you would speak to me. But instead, I suppose I had to force the issue --” 

“Run me to the ground, as it were --” 

“If you’d like. To get back to your question, I think it was --” Maedhros stretched his right hand toward Fingon, who caught and tangled their fingers together. “When I … died, I thought I had reached the lowest depths possible. But I had not. And I did not, until long afterward. But such things cannot be accounted by the passing of time there. In Mandos, time is no one’s master.” 

“I know it,” Fingon said, letting go of Maedhros’ hand. “I am glad you found a way out.” 

After a long silence, Maedhros asked Fingon if he would come home. 

“Faithful dog that I am,” Fingon said, getting up, slinging the harp over his shoulder. “I will. First, I think I will follow my sister’s steps and wander a little -- see new versions of old friends. Aredhel says that she met Beleg Cúthalion a few years ago -- perhaps I will do the same! We didn’t have much of a chance to talk, last we met.” 

“Should I be --” Maedhros stopped himself in time, and gave Fingon a lopsided grin. “Don’t take too long.” 

And Fingon promised that he would not.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember a few years back when every other fic took its title from the Wolf Parade song, "You Are a Runner and I am My Father's Son"? It applied to so many pairings across so many fandoms. Those were some good times. Wolf Parade was and continues to be one of my favorite bands. And while I admit 'You Are A Runner' is awesome (and naturally completely applied to Fingon/Maedhros), 'An Animal in Your Care' is even more relevant, re: our beloved Elves. I mean, you can see all the post-Thangorodrim fics now, can't you? 
> 
> But, er, this is not that fic. I hope you like it, somebraveapollo -- thank you for requesting the perfect coupling of song and pairing. :D
> 
> And thanks million to Suzelle for taking a look at it. All mistakes are mine, etc.


End file.
